


breathe while you can

by contsansine (yujael)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/contsansine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Tucker minds. The extra warmth is good, especially with the nights getting colder. And if he had to sleep anywhere near Caboose on top of all the other shit he had in his head, he'd want to be out getting some fresh air, too. Somewhere where someone would have his back. He's cool with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe while you can

“Anything?”

Tucker jumps. He turns quickly and finds Washington standing next to Church's truck, which he's sitting on top of. Washington scans the tree line in the dark like he didn't just appear out of nowhere and scare the shit out of Tucker.

“Fuck, dude,” Tucker sighs, relaxing his grip on his sword, “don't do that.”

“Sorry,” Wash murmurs. “Wasn't intentional. Nor was it my fault that you weren't paying attention.”

“I was so paying attention.” Tucker waves at the moonlit landscape around the pickup, which doubles as one of their watch posts every night. “Do you see anything out there? 'Cause I don't.”

“Is that because you took them down or because there's just nothing there?” Wash asks. His face is completely blank, but Tucker can hear the snark.

“Both,” he says. He's said it before – it isn't like he carries this sword around for shits and giggles. He's twice as good with it as Church is with that fucking sniper rifle. More than that, actually. “What are you doing over here?”

“I couldn't sleep, wanted some fresh air. And before you ask, I'm not taking your shift.”

Tucker slouches and checks his watch. Just past midnight. “What if I told you I was cold and tired?”

“Still no, because, as you reminded me last time, we're all cold and tired.”

“So this is your solution? Bother me?” Tucker would say something about being distracted, but with every living person on safe grounds and every dead person in sight, well, headless and dead, he's bored as fuck. He's only had to get off the truck once this entire time.

“I came to check on things.”

“Things are just fine.”

“Well, good. That's all I wanted to know.”

“Great.”

Tucker continues on with his staring contest with the trees and makes sure to pay closer attention to the sounds closer to him. There are absolutely none, though, because Washington hasn't moved. Tucker looks down again, just to check. Yep. Wash is still standing next to the truck. Tucker glances back to the camp and the field beyond it. Grif is sitting on the roof of Sarge's jeep, supposedly keeping an eye out on the field, but Tucker catches movement from a second figure in a reddish sweater. Apparently both watchers have company tonight.

As if he's been reading Tucker's thoughts, Wash turns his head upward and stares. Even in the poor light, his blue-grey eyes have the distinct hardness that comes with having seen a whole lot of serious shit. 

Tucker's seen some serious shit, too. He could say he gets it, but instead he asks, “Do you plan on going back to sleep any time soon?”

Washington looks away. “I don't think so... Caboose is snoring loud tonight.” He pulls his sweater tighter around himself and goes to lean against the front of the truck.

Tucker shifts sideways a little and props his sword up against his shoulder. “Okay then, might as well hop up if you're sticking around. We'll do doubles for like,” he checks his watch again, “an hour.”

“I'm fine down here.”

Tucker shrugs. Should have seen that one coming. “Suit yourself.”

He returns to his original task of watching trees. After a moment, he lets himself be distracted briefly by the dim glints of light in Wash's short hair, though he doesn't stop listening. Zombies are nowhere near as stealthy as Wash when it comes to their shuffling and groaning. Usually. There have been some close calls. Some of them don't exactly scream “I'm right fucking here”.

Wash's head moves up a little and his shoulders tense. Tucker's attention snaps back to the trees – and there's one, meandering into the field, stumbling over rocks and roots on its way past the trees. It looks like one of those old ones, one that's been going for so long that it's come to the point that only a complete idiot could be in danger around it. It doesn't even have two arms.

“It's on your watch,” Wash says, like he doesn't have a knife in his pocket anyway.

“Yeah, I know.” Tucker grabs his sword, stretches his legs out and slides off the truck. “I got it.”

He heads into the field between the trees and the truck, blade ready. Open spaces always creep him out nowadays, even if they're empty, but with Wash watching his back, he doesn't really think about it. The one-armed zombie reaches for him, and all he thinks about as he makes one fluid slash through its neck is how goddamn lucky they were to run into Wash in the middle of that hell run for supplies. To run into that “old acquaintance” of Tex's, who didn't look like too much at first, with a worn sweater and dirt covering the scars on his face.

Tucker wipes the blood off his sword in the grass and takes the chance to scan the tree line while he's still close. Nothing. But where there's one, there's usually another somewhere close by. It might have just lost a leg or something.

He heads back to Church's truck, and the first thing he notices is that Washington has taken his spot on the roof. His hands are hidden in his pockets, warding off the chill of the night, and he gives Tucker an expression slightly warmer than the one from five minutes ago.

“Thought you were fine down here,” Tucker teases.

Wash shrugs, slides to the other side of the roof and offers Tucker a hand. “I guess I changed my mind.”

Tucker hoists himself up with Wash's help and takes his spot back. The metal is still warm under him. There's limited space on the roof, so while Tucker makes himself as comfortable as he can, their arms and legs keep brushing. Wash doesn't appear to mind, not even when Tucker gets settled with a knee pressing into his leg – and Tucker knows he doesn't mind because Washington has rarely passed up the chance to tell Tucker when he's getting on his nerves. Or doing something wrong in general.

It's not like he minds, either. The extra warmth is good, especially with the nights getting colder. And if he had to sleep anywhere near Caboose on top of all the other shit he had in his head, he'd want to be out getting some fresh air, too. Somewhere where someone would have his back. He's cool with that.

Maybe twenty minutes go by before another zombie shows up. Tucker goes for his sword, but Wash slips down to the ground first.

“I'll get this one,” he says, drawing his dagger out of his pocket. The one with the faded initials written on the worn handle that he has on his person every second of the day. He comes back after stabbing the thing in the head – twice for good measure – and when Tucker asks when he actually decided to go along with the double watch, he just shrugs again. Tucker offers a hand, pulls him back up, and they make themselves comfortable. As comfortable as they can get on watch, anyway, on the side of the road in the middle of the night, with dead things all around. Even on doubles.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written for RvB, so I thought I'd start off slow. I'm still getting a grasp of the characters, so comments are appreciated.


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